I was watering my garden yesterday when I spotted a grasshopper sitting on one of my okra plants. Just like that, the little girl in me came alive. I got distracted and started chasing it, the way I used to as a child. It took a few tries (thankfully, no diving into the grass this time) before I finally caught it. Then I started playing around with it, completely entertained. Before I knew it, time had passed, it was dark, and I could not finish watering my plants.
And suddenly, I was transported back to my childhood. My
mother would send us to fetch water from the stream. I would set out faithfully
with my jerrycan or bucket, fully intending to accomplish the mission. Then I
would see a grasshopper, not just any grasshopper, but one of those big,
brightly colored ones that looked like a locust. Or perhaps it actually was a
locust. Those things were FAST!
Down went my jerrycan. I would begin tiptoeing toward my
target, arms stretched out in front of me like a robot. Slowly…quietly…no
sound…barely breathing. It was as if the grasshopper knew exactly what I was
doing. It would sit there watching me approach, waiting. Then, just when I was
certain I had gotten close enough…DIVE!!!
I would land in the grass and slowly uncurl my tightly
clasped hands, full of anticipation. Nothing! Just grass. Meanwhile, the
grasshopper would be sitting a few feet away, looking at me as if to say, ‘Come
get me!’ So, of course, I would get up. Reposition. Robot mode activated again.
Tiptoe…tiptoe…DIVE!
By the time I remembered
why I had left home in the first place, my jerrycan would be hundreds of feet
behind me. I would run back, grab it, and tell myself, Okay, enough playing. Go
and fetch the water. Then…CHIRP! Another grasshopper. And this one was BIGGER.
BRIGHTER. More beautiful than the first! Surely, I could not just walk past
this one. So down went the jerrycan again, and off I went.
Sometimes I caught one,
and it was more than thrilling! Other times, nothing. Either way, I was
determined: I am catching at least ONE grasshopper before I get to that stream!
Then eventually, I would look up and see the children I had LEFT HOME WITH already
walking BACK from the stream, their containers full of water. Meanwhile, I had
not even reached the stream yet!
That was when reality would hit. My heart would begin
racing because I knew I was in trouble. Those children would arrive before me,
and my mother would see them and ask, ‘Where is Chidi kwanu?’ Now I knew there
was potentially a good-sized apipia (a switch) or a well-crafted utari or
koboko, the kind the Hausa people sold, waiting for me at home.
I would finally arrive, my tiny feet shaking beneath my
clothes, palms sweating, and heart pounding: KPUM! KPUM! KPUM! My mother would
look at me and say, ‘Agbagharaihuuka!’ It was her way of describing someone who
had forgotten what she was sent to do because she became distracted chasing
grasshoppers. Me, literally! Or anyone who had wandered away from what actually
mattered.
Then came the question: ‘What kept you so long? You were
playing instead of fetching the water, ikwa?’ Sometimes she punished me by
doubling the number of trips I had to make to the stream. Other times, she
simply let me go. And sometimes, while trying very hard to look angry, she
would break into a giggle. WHEEEW! There were many times I deserved a good
whooping but somehow escaped it. Perhaps it was because I was the last-born and
my parents were simply exhausted from ‘flogging’ children by the time I arrived.
Or maybe, after raising so many ahead of me, they had become completely
desensitized to childhood mischief.
Yesterday, standing in
my garden with that grasshopper in my hand and realizing that I had once again
allowed a grasshopper to distract me from what I was supposed to be doing, I
started thinking: How often do we do the same thing in life? How many times
have we put down our jerrycan to chase a grasshopper?
We started with a
destination, a dream, a calling, a purpose, a vision, something God placed in
our hearts. We were headed somewhere. Then something caught our attention. We
stopped. We chased. We wandered. One distraction led to another, and one day we
looked up and wondered, How did I get this far away from where I was going?
Some of life’s grasshoppers are beautiful and attractive.
Others come disguised as disappointment, rejection, discouragement, setbacks,
fear, comparison, wrong relationships, or battles we never expected to fight.
Whatever form they take, the result can be the same: we put down the jerrycan.
We forget the stream. We forget why we started walking in the first place.
Sometimes, by the time we realize how distracted we have become, years have
passed.
But grace enters the story, and mercy speaks. Scripture
reminds us that the Lord’s mercies never fail; they are new every morning
(Lamentations 3:22–23). Another morning means another opportunity to begin
again.
Maybe you have spent some time chasing the grasshoppers of
life. Maybe disappointment made you put down your vision. Maybe rejection
pushed you off course, fear stopped you, or life happened, and somewhere along
the journey you simply lost your way. Pick up your jerrycan, dearly beloved.
The stream is still there. Your purpose is still calling. Your dream is still
worth pursuing.
You may have lost time, but you have not lost God. You may
have taken a detour, but God knows exactly where you are. You may have
wandered, but His mercy can redirect you. So stop chasing the grasshopper. Pick
up your jerrycan and start walking toward the stream again.
Get up. Break out. Break through. Break forth! And keep ‘looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith’ (Hebrews 12:2). The grasshoppers of life will keep chirping. Let them chirp. You have water to fetch.
Let the grasshoppers chirp. Pick up your jerrycan—you still have water to fetch.
Chidi - counselor, gardener,
storyteller, and lifelong student of the lessons hidden in ordinary moments.
Garden & Reflections offers a glimpse into the experiences
and everyday lessons that shape me beyond the therapy room. These personal
reflections are shared thoughtfully while honoring the professional boundaries
of the counseling relationship.